Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 90, May 1951
- Автор: Кристи Агата, Куин (Квин) Эллери
- Год: 1951
- Язык: английский
- Год: Mercury Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 90, May 1951». Краткое содержание книги:
“So there we are. I’ll bet my last shilling that Douglas drugged the coffee, but I don’t see how he could have killed his uncle. And I’ll put my shirt on Royle as an utterly honest and reliable witness, but that means that the girl couldn’t have done it either. So there it is. Now make up a story to account for everything, and I shall believe that you really are an author.”
“Dear Saxe, I can give you one straight off. The girl stabbed him when she went to see him after lunch. She hid the knife temporarily in the back garden — where you never looked — and disposed of it afterwards. To give her a perfect alibi Douglas drugged the two of them, and witnessed that his uncle was alive after Phyllida had left him. To give himself a certain amount of cover, he deliberately got himself arrested. If you’d picked him up two hours later, the absence of the knife wouldn’t have been in his favor. Thus, joint murder by the two legatees.”
“Good lord, Colby,” said Saxe. “I believe you’ve got it!”
“Yes, but I don’t like it. It doesn’t do justice to my creative powers. Any policeman could have thought of it. Also, it leaves no alternative suspect, which is bad art, and, from the murderer’s point of view, bad management. No, it won’t do; there’s something wrong somewhere. I was picturing the scene in my delightfully imaginative way — see press clippings — and something went wrong suddenly. Let me take that plan of the room and Royle’s statement to bed with me, and I’ll tell you the true story tomorrow.”
“Well, got the story?”
“Yes. Your Hockey Captain did it on her own, hoping that her little brother would be hanged, thus scooping the pool. Nice girl.”
“Impossible!”
“That’s what she hoped you’d think.”
“I suppose you mean that being in love with the girl, Royle made up his story to save her?”
“Who said anything about Royle? Royle is the perfect witness. That’s why the girl bumped into him.”
“You’re suggesting that she deliberately picked him up?”
“Well, you see, he was just what she wanted: good character, observant, and a slow starter with his coffee.”
“My dear Colby, how could she possibly have known beforehand that he drank his coffee slowly?”
“She’d watched him on other mornings. Why not? Now, I’ll tell you what happened—”
“In a story,” interrupted Saxe, leaving himself free to laugh at it or profit by it.
“In a story,” said Colby firmly, “which may or may not — I haven’t decided yet — include a very stupid Chief Constable. Here we go. The morphia was in the cream — don’t interrupt. All went as Royle told you. There are the two of them sitting by the fire; and in the car, bumping into policemen, which was the last thing she wanted, a witness that the uncle was alive. The plan demands that she shall be the first to drink her coffee, and so now she drinks it undrugged. She pretends to feel sleepy, and puts her feet up. Just as he is beginning to fade away, she goes out with a bump, or so it seems; and, of course, the fact that oblivion (as we novelists say) is descending on him too makes it all very convincing. As soon as he is completely out, she gets up, and in her quick athletic way stabs that very tiresome uncle. She has a nice little untraceable grave in the back garden waiting for the dagger, and in it goes. She washes out the cream jug, pours a little undoped cream into it which she has carefully put aside, gives herself a little more coffee, drops in the morphia for herself, stirs, and swallows. Then she lies down again on the sofa and — genuinely this time — passes out. And there she is, and there she has been all the time when Royle wakes up, and there is the dope in the coffee cups and nowhere else. End of story.”
“Good lord, you know,” said Saxe in astonishment, “it could have happened that way!”
“If there is one thing that Author Colby prides himself on, it is his realism. It could.”
“But that doesn’t say that it did. It’s just a story.”
Colby was silent.
“Or have you got any proof?” continued Saxe. “Yes, you said there was something wrong in Royle’s statement. Is that it?”
“Not in Royle’s statement. It couldn’t have been more accurate. No; something was wrong in my visualization of the scene. Or so I thought. But on consulting Plan С again in my bedroom, I found that there was nothing wrong in my visualization of the scene. So then I knew that the hockey eleven was going to lose its popular young captain.”
“You’ll have to explain.”
“I insist on explaining. I’ve been looking forward to explaining ever since 1:30 a.m. When your Inspector arrived on the scene, Phyllida was lying on the sofa with her feet towards the fireplace — otherwise, how could a bit of burning wood from the fireplace have got on her shoe, the one that fell off? But Royle’s last view of Phyllida before he passed out included the ruby on her engagement hand, hanging over the side of the sofa. A woman’s engagement finger is on her left hand. For Royle to have seen Phyllida’s left hand hanging over the side of the sofa, with her feet towards the fireplace, the sofa would have had to be on the right side of the fireplace. But Royle had specifically testified that his armchair was on the right of the fireplace, and that the sofa was on the other side.”
“The sofa is on the left.”
“Exactly. Which means that she was lying in a drugged stupor with her head to the fire at 2:30, and in the same drugged stupor with her feet to the fire at 5. Silly girl.”
“My God!”
“Yes.”
“I think I’ll telephone,” said Saxe, getting up.
“At least,” said Colby, “you can dig up the back garden. And you might give Royle a hint, or a French novel to translate, or something, to take his mind off the girl. Quite apart from losing your star witness if he marries her, you don’t want to spoil his young life. He wouldn’t be happy with Phyllida. Too violent for him, don’t you think?”
Murder with Music
by Frederic A. Birmingham[3]
It is very difficult to sing while you are being choked to death. So thought Fogarty as he heard her upstairs, singing to herself in that hateful, trilly soprano. This evening would do as well as any other. It isn’t every suburban community that can boast a good old-fashioned strangling.
There were better ways, but Fogarty found himself liking the whole idea of watching her bright eyes grow dim as he stilled that lovely voice forever. He was not afraid. His alibis were set in advance. After it was done, he could merely slip out of the house and it would be morning before anyone found out what had happened. He had made it a habit to stay out all night every so often, and the neighbors — the only ones who could possibly see him — were too dulled by routine to remember anything even if it happened before their very eyes. They could never trace him even if they saw him. He knew every alley and vacant lot for miles around. He had made it his business to find out.
She would be taking her nap soon: this was the time. Her daily nap! Fogarty bristled at the thought. No concern for him, or what he might want to do, or need to have done for him. She was delicately formed, her voice was precious, and it had become obvious to him all too soon that her interest in him came afterwards.
It hadn’t always been that way. Fogarty could remember the time when they delighted in being together, when it was enough to sit there for hours just looking at each other, and wondering about the other’s thoughts. That had been a happy beginning, before everyone who knew them was captivated by her skittish little marks of friendship, her radiant pleasure in even the smallest attentions, and the soaring beauty of her voice. Even Fogarty had been taken in by her voice, at first. But now he knew that she lived only for that magic thing in her throat. Even his own friends shuffled him off quickly now for the sake of spending time with her, as if a set of vocal chords meant more than Fogarty’s almost perfect male perfection and the many romances thereof. Well, her indifference to him, her incredible vanity, and her insatiable love of attention, would cost her the life that she loved so well.
3
Copyright, August 1949, by Esquire, Inc.